


The Ground's A Long Way Down But I Need More

by BoyFuckWonderland



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Sigma, Brain Damage, Brain Surgery, Dubious Consent, F/M, FTM Reaper, FTM Sigma, Good Boy, M/M, Molestation, Omorashi, Restraints, Sensory Processing Disorder, Trans Male Character, Trepanation, cumming untouched, sigma balls lol, trepanning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoyFuckWonderland/pseuds/BoyFuckWonderland
Summary: Sigma's still getting used to the dynamics at Talon, though he's struggling to fit in. Moira and Reaper, ever the astute observers, are keen to help get him back on track.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper, Moira O'Deorain/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper, Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	The Ground's A Long Way Down But I Need More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweatbeast420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatbeast420/gifts).



> This is the first Overwatch related thing I've ever created, so of course it's a Trepanation fic just for my extra special boyfriend who is obsessed with it <3 love you with all my heart, Lizard. Don't google trepanation if you're squeamish, mind the tags, etc etc etc.

When he sits, he sits on his hands, because it feels like the right thing to do. Bright young minds, smart little boys, don’t fiddle with the papers they’re writing, the books they’re reading, the lessons they’re learning. They sit extremely still and smile to show they’re tuned in, they don’t wiggle or fidget.

It’s a habit he still holds in adulthood. Even though the group of people around him who were so kind to break him out of the mental hospital _(jail? he was strapped in to every bad, handcuffed to every surface, and yet was told it was for his own good. he doesn’t know what’s for his own good anymore, has to have people tell him)_ keeps insisting he should feel free to do whatever he wants, just as long as he does the things they tell him to do when the time is appropriate, then sure, Siebren, you can wiggle all you want. A sweet smile from all of them- should they reveal themselves of course. He feels like he’s seen everything of everyone so far, except for the peculiarity of the one who says his name is Reaper and won’t divulge any more past that- certainly not when their relationship seems to consist mainly of sexual violence and orders growled; regardless if it's thru a speaker in his ear or from the lips themselves directly pressed against him, he has yet to actually experience the fullness of that man the way he has for Moira, Sombra, Akande, Amelie...

Reaper. The other man who seems to be having just as hard a time as himself holding it together, but pretends he isn’t. He’s gotten plenty of disdain from his near-constant state of “on the edge of a panic attack” that, if the others experience it, seem much better equipped to handle it than he himself is. Reaper’s the only other one who seems to be half as unstable as he is, and yet, even that seems to have its caveats. The only thing he can think to do sometimes when at his wit's end is to pull the man aside, sinking down literally to his level with his bare feet touching the ground and atrophied legs struggling to hold the weight of his problems up, and wrap his somewhat stronger arm around the other man to remind him that he inhabits a body just the same as Reaper.

But he knows better than that, because despite his black hole of a brain, sucking in knowledge and light and grey matter and leaving behind all the important things like how to tell someone he’s hungry but can’t figure out the stove anymore, or that he’d much rather have a pillow under his head when one of his… acquaintances? Captors? Team mates? Friends…? Regardless, when one of the people he shares the space with is three fingers crammed inside his ass and they tell him to stop floating for a sec so they don’t have to break out the stepladder just to breed him. He doesn’t have access to those skills anymore, or at least, he feels like he doesn’t; but still manages to _not_ risk giving Reaper a complex or god knows what else he could mess up.

They’re both fragile enough, and if not for the admittance of weakness of fragility, then in the very least, they’re aware enough of the defensive walls put up on the other to know not to bring up things like feelings or, god forbid, trauma. That seemingly mutual understanding of each other is probably why he’s sitting here now, in a depressurized chamber, with every facet of his body in the process of being strapped in. Even his skull is strapped in to what looks like a medieval torture device that Moira reassures him against his neurotic fears that it is, in fact, clean. Reaper stands by, breathing heavily and audibly behind his mask, his fists clenching and unclenching with the creak of leather making a sort of cacophony in the room.

Metal tools clinking; leather creaking; breath puffing behind metal; a list being checked off; and he hears the other man take a breath to signify he’s about to speak in that growl of a voice, rumbling deep in his chest and he swears he perceives it with his eyes and not his ears, feels the weight of the vibrations on his teeth and the tips of his fingers which clawed gloves are wrapped around the wrists they’re connected to, jammed under his ass like he’s 16 and not 62 and he’s back at university again, but the professors wouldn’t be trying to get his arms up from under him now would they?

“Get off your hands. C’mon. Be a good boy and co-operate.” Reaper grumbles, his grip tightening to a painful tension for a brief moment and the fear of a worse sensation is what gets him to finally give in, even though there’s a neurotic flash of fear that even in the face of being… tortured? They haven’t even told him what he was here for and that scares him deeply; but what’s scarier still is the fear of being impolite or otherwise bad. It’s ridiculous, he knows, and that knowledge gives him enough to justify a laugh. It prompts a birdlike chirping noise to his side where Moira fiddles with a whirring machine that he can’t see, what with his head screwed in place, but he hopes it’s not going to bring too much pain. He’s already been lovingly introduced to their weird painplay cult crap where they seem to be allergic to anesthesia unless if it’s for the expressly somnophiliac purposes of molesting him whilst entirely unconscious. 

He swallows the thick paste-like saliva that’d been accumulating in the desert of his mouth with more effort than he’d have liked, and tries to weigh what he’d prefer with a sense of rationality and not the hysteria that seems to be trying to build in his eyes, his teeth, his throat, his toes that he curls and uncurls the way Reaper seems to curl and uncurl his fingers, and he’s freaking out because he can’t tell if it would be more dignified to break down and beg for a painkiller, or if this is another test of endurance. Why won’t they tell him what they’re gonna do to him?

At this point, his hands have been firmly strapped in and he can’t move an inch- literally- or maybe he can but he doesn’t know what body part it would be capable of doing so without risk real damage to his ligaments, tendons, muscles already decaying. He sniffles, and there’s a smooth cloth that dabs at his sweaty forehead, then his nose, and he stammers out a thank you even if he knows how absurd it is to politely acknowledge what was being done to him like the good boy he desperately is still trying to prove to the world he’s still capable of being, he swears, he promises he can be good, even if being good brings whatever the hell is happening to him now. 

Moira enters his field of vision briefly, and she’s leaning in to say something to Reaper, something she seems like she normally would be inclined to share with the world with that always-on smile. Like a mischievous spirit, always the voyeur, and she casts a sidelong glance in his direction. She has the height advantage over most others, including himself when he’s grounded, but he has the strength over her.

What strength is it good for strapped in like this, though? It doesn’t help that Moira and himself both know he wouldn’t lift a finger against her even if his life depended on it- and most days, it literally did. It just doesn’t seem right to him to fight back against someone like that. Most days, it doesn’t seem right to fight back against _anyone_. But that was neither here nor there because Moira and Reaper were moving out of his very limited field of vision and he could hear the vibrations of them talking but couldn’t make out words. He allowed himself the luxury to close his eyes for a brief moment till he could feel the air pressure shift with moving bodies again.

Eyes open. Reaper’s standing in front of him and is holding some kind of. Dentist tool? He can tell Reaper is looking at him head-on despite the imperceptible nature of the mask. Moira’s somewhere behind him, and she speaks up.

“D’you think he’s ready for it?” Like venom. Like poison. Like a snake producing so much of it dripping from its open mouth, sizzling with toxicity on anything it drips onto. Currently, it feels like the top of his skull, seeping into the sucking wound of his brain. Ready for what? Despite feeling Reaper’s stare on him, he can’t bring himself to make eye contact. All he can do is keep staring at the tool. It looked sort of like a drill? Suddenly the restraints around his head feel much tighter.

The stare endures. Seconds tick by, the not-silence going unfilled by vocalizations, and it’s perhaps the most scrutinized he’s felt in his entire life. Normally his mind would be running through dozens of worst-case scenarios in a hypercut of each bad thing, but now it’s deceptively blank. He’s terrified, sweat is running into his eyes and making them water with a salty film, but he can’t blink. Just stares at the hypnotic visage of the tool. Only when he breaks the hold and his eyes nervously flicker over to Reaper after how long does the trance seem to break in all of them at once.

“Yeah. He’s ready.” Reaper says simply, and without further ado, the machine clicks on behind him. He can feel the surge of electricity in the air, how it crackles, the delicate hairs in his ears and nose and the end of his eyelids, and the back of his neck all prickling at once. It’s not nearly as loud a noise as he thought it would be, and it’s not like a dentist drill that makes that whirring noise at all- like the difference of smell between a wood fire and an electrical fire. Was this natural? Was this the drill equivalent of a lightning strike setting the underbrush alight, and not mismanaged wires sending currents through an object till it burst into flames?

When he burned to death, would it smell like it was supposed to happen, or would it be entirely manufactured? Has the multiplicity been there all along, voices he worked with; or was it that damnable gravity rending him apart, feeding his brain into a wood chipper till all his ego states were drifting aimlessly? Is that why he had so much trouble keeping it together? As he fixes his gaze once more on the drill, now rattling in Reaper’s hand, a calm comes over him, and he realizes whatever they’re going to do is going to fix him. He’s going to become normal again- maybe he’ll even be allowed back to his old life.

The drill gets closer. The little white microhairs on his forehead all shudder at once and it causes his brow to briefly furrow before he smooths it out again. Breathes deeply through his nose and closes his eyes and accepts it.

When hot metal makes contact with his forehead, the scream is one of euphoria, not fear. The pain is blinding, he can see it burst behind his closed eyelids, and his entire body seizes. They’re exorcising him, that’s all, he just has to allow himself to open to it. The wet gurgle of skin giving way changes to a crunch of bone being dug out. Blood is spraying out like a fountain, like the world’s most well deserved warm shower after a long day at work. It’s not nearly as hot as he thought it would be- the same temperature on his body as it was inside it before the air cools it down. He can hardly take stock of the temperature, though, breathing raggedly through his open mouth and choking on his own blood.

Just about as the time he wants to ask for mercy, it all stops. How long had it gone on to begin with? He can’t tell, opens his eyes to see a clock and it’s all red and black and white mask and he’s laughing, softly, jerking his hips up rhythmically in the chair with the gentle ebb and flow of a low tide at night, like the only reason he was moving at all was the whims of the moon’s gravity pulling on him; the drill releasing all the pressure in his skull and out with the blood flows his pain and strife as well. He feels euphoric, he feels it all surging through him and at some point his underwear had been cut away and there are fingers touching his crotch, touching his body, lubricated with blood or maybe he really was that wet down there to begin with- can’t tell at this point if it’s cum or piss cause he was so absorbed in the feeling of it all leaving him. There’s no internal pressure, no pain, no fear. Just the inherent understanding he was made right, and it doesn’t take anything at all after that for his muscles to contract and a gush of fluid either from the hole in his skull or from the one in his pelvis.

“Good boy. Good boy.” He hears the voice at his ear, feels the body pressed against him, knows it’s Reaper after he’d dropped the drill at some point. Pants are being unbuckled and he can’t smell past the scent of blood in his nose but he knows the other man’s musk well enough, knows how he sweats like when he’s worked up by the sight of blood, the sound of pain, and he can’t turn his head the way he wants to so he can nuzzle the man’s thigh in affection for how they fixed him but as his mouth falls slack he doesn’t think he needs to be all fuzzy about it. Just takes Reaper’s massive t-dick in between his teeth, tries to apply suction but they can’t get a good angle the way his head is strapped in and he doesn’t wanna fiddle with the restraints anyway.

“Hold your tongue out. Ah, that’s it. Good boy.” Reaper grinds out between his teeth, his jaw’s clenched and he’s tucked his chin into his chest and his hands hold the back of the chair for dear life as he grinds his swollen cock against his willing tongue, uses him to get off while he sobs out his gratefulness for being made normal again. As he feels Reaper grow closer to orgasm, he can’t help the tears streaming down his face as he knows from this point forward, it’ll be all he can do to service them and show them his gratitude for this action. As Reaper cums in his mouth he laps up the fluid graciously, and thanks them as many times as he can before he passes out from the blood loss.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in more of my type of content, look me up on @fuck_wonderland on twitter! ^_^


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